


Pompeii under Vesuvius

by smudgesofink



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: In which Aziraphale makes the first move after Armageddidn't, M/M, and Crowley has a meltdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 19:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink
Summary: The first time Aziraphale reaches for his hand and holds it, Crowley experiences a slow sort of meltdown, not unlike the quiet of Pompeii before Mt. Vesuvius erupted.





	Pompeii under Vesuvius

The first time Aziraphale reaches for his hand and _holds it,_ Crowley experiences a slow sort of meltdown, not unlike the quiet of Pompeii before Mt. Vesuvius erupted. Crowley had been there in the fall of Pompeii, had seen with his yellow-cursed eyes the ash rain and the smoke and the way the city had been buried alive so quickly. He knows what it felt like, and that feels exactly like this moment.

Like falling. Like being buried alive.

Aziraphale does not know this.

His hand is soft, warm against Crowley’s reptile-cold skin, and better than anything Crowley had imagined in all his lifetime. Aziraphale’s thick fingers push into the gaps between Crowley’s spindle-thin ones, claiming their space with certainty, and they shouldn’t fit together, Crowley thinks, being as different as they are, but they do.

Their hands fit the way the earth fits itself to the horizon, the same way one cannot tell where the sky begins and the edge of the world ends. They fit the way Crowley never thought they would.

Crowley holds his breath, almost whites out in his attempt to stay still. It’s their first lunch together on the First Day of the Rest of their Lives, and Aziraphale is holding his hand, and Crowley is having a meltdown, yes, but nevertheless Crowley. Will. Not. Ruin. This.

By breathing, or by any other way.

He must make a noise somehow (because of course he does, 6000 years apparently still isn’t enough time for Crowley to know how to control his blessed—damned—_fucking _mouth) and it makes Aziraphale look up from across him, blue eyes as wide as the sky and pink lips parted to speak.

(He’s as beautiful as sin incarnate. Aziraphale often forgets that temptation is Crowley’s job, not his.)

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks—whispers, really, as if any louder a voice would send Crowley running away. “Is this alright?”

Crowley does not know how to answer. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley is not good with spoken words; he’s got little to no control over his tongue and the awkward bend of syllables. How does he say something is too much and too little at the same time?

How does he say _I feel like I’m being buried alive by this thing in my chest that I have for you, that I’ve had for you for as long as I’ve known you, Aziraphale?_

How does he say, _Angel, what you’re doing right now is killing me, I can feel it, but I will take as much as you are willing to give me any day, every day, for the rest of this eternity we have together and if you’ll let me, I’ll burn myself alive for you like the ashes of Pompeii, I go too fast, I know, but I will drive myself to ruin if you ask me to do so, and anything you do to me will always feel like it is right_—

Aziraphale does not know this but Crowley can ruin almost anything when he speaks.

So Crowley doesn’t. He fumbles for the words, incoherent noises betraying him by escaping his throat, and then decides to just clamp his mouth shut. Hold his breath, keep still.

Aziraphale stares searchingly when he makes no further attempt to answer. He waits until it’s clear that Crowley isn’t planning to say anything, and then Aziraphale gives his hand the gentlest of squeezes that Crowley feels to his core like the tremors under the city as the volcano erupted.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmurs. He’s so achingly gentle, so unlike Vesuvius. 

“I—Hgh—Yeah, yes,” Crowley says finally, a hiss of rushed, desperate breath that’s punctuated with a shaky, answering squeeze to Aziraphale’s hand. He won’t ruin this again, will he? Crowley has never felt more terrified. “Angel. Yes. Please.”

Aziraphale’s entire expression softens. He breaks into a tender smile, unaware of the things it does to Crowley’s last thread of sanity, and holds Crowley’s hand firmer, surer. Like the earth and the sky. Pompeii buried under Vesuvius.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale whispers again, and his voice is so fond as he speaks to Crowley. Has it always been so fond? He’s smiling like the sun has possessed him. “You’ll tell me if I’m going too fast, wouldn’t you?”

_I don’t know what’s too fast, I didn’t think I would get this far. _Crowley swallows back all the words and nods. The panic is ebbing away, slowly, but the warmth from their joined hands is still pulsing through Crowley like magma, fiery and alive. 

Aziraphale is still smiling at him.

And everything is still okay. 

“Nothing’s too fast, angel,” Crowley risks a smile back. “Not if it’s you.”

Across him, Aziraphale positively beams—possessed by the sun, Crowley swears—and keeps on holding his hand. 

Crowley lets himself breathe. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's 1 AM, I'm seeing spots and I've posted my Good Omens fic, finally. Good night.


End file.
